In which elements are braved and flowers grow puppies.

This storm was not a metaphorical one, but an actual one that heaved its way up or down the hillside sometime in the dark hours of the morning, rolling heavily with great gusts and rain in its lashes, a-wooshing and a-splashing. A less than pleasant wake-up call for all, particularly for those dangling in hammocks over the valley below. There wasn't much else to do but huddle in the protection of our hopefully-still-waterproof tent, willing the shields to hold.

This made for a sopping start a few hours later, thickly clouded with a touch of cranky in the post-rain freshness. Tent rung out as much as possible, we packed everything back into the vehicle and headed back toward that most extraordinary of coastal routes, driving west.

The target was Bilbao, but between us and it were other sights to be spontaneoused and wet sands in which to leave toeprints.

Eventually the rain directed us inland along highways that sped past high places. The mountains only escorted us for a matter of minutes, however, before retreating into the mists of the rear view mirror.

Up one hill, down another, and into a valley filled with one of the most eclectic cities I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. First of all, it doesn't particularly ease itself into existance with slowly growing suburbs -- at least not the way we first arrived -- it just kind of happens. Bam. And secondly, it doesn't just appear, it arrives like Superman might -- shiny, Guggenheim cape flapping flauntingly in the wind and giant, red bridge poised protectively and looking for all the world like the architectural representation of an Uglydoll.

In need of a place to sleep, we made our way to the most touristy part of the map, where our chances of finding a tourist information booth with possible campground suggestions were highest. Suspicians rung true and we discussed our options under the lofty gaze of Jeff Koons' quilted flower garden Puppy. The employees of the tourist center were only accomodating in that they assured us we wouldn't be able to find any open campgounds at this point thanks to a festival downtown. We didn't really have much of a choice at that point, however, so we hopped in the car and hoped for the best.

The best isn't exactly what we got, unfortunately, as the city's one-way streets were long and unforgiving and didn't ever really turn out where you expected them to. The further we drove and the more times we turned around, the more it seemed like all roads would lead into the gaping, laughing jaws of a labyrinthine auto inferno, endlessly to stop and go.

Okay, it actually wasn't that dramatic, but it was that frustrating. We did eventually figure out how to get back over the Uglydoll Bridge and headed coastward with our hopes set on one campground after another. Booked. Booked. Booked but with a sunrise that was that dramatic. And finally, many miles from the city but not far from a nice beach, we found a place willing to let us pop our tent and do some twilight cooking and nighttime sleeping.

Meanwhile, I successfully completed another revolution around the sun, creating yet another excuse for breakfasting on chocolate cake. Prime fodder to fuel a day of decompressing, napping place migrating with a nomadic tree shadow across the sands, and learning how to feed twice as many people with only one GDR-era Gas Cooker, as our party had grown by two in the wee hours of the morning with the arrival of friends from the North.

Eventually the dusk darkened to dawn and the sky awoke to find itself just as naked and blue as the day before.

In which there is a whole lotta beautiful and a whole lotta sheep.

*August 2012

 

After two nights in San Sebastián, there was still one eve between us and our tentatively scheduled landfall in Bilbao, the great culmination destination of several weeks' adventuring. Technically we didn't have very far to go, so we took our time, turning left out of the campground and heading west along the mountain crest, drool dripping down the windows obscuring the unreal ocean/cliff landscapes to the north and sweeping mountainous terrain to the south. Horses oblivious to their prime real estate, tiny farms perched on distant peaks, wildflowers ablaze, and all, all the blue.

 

All roads eventually lead to the ocean and this one was no exception. Down we twisted, careened, joyrode of the soul until the car parked itself in a dank, green, underground parking garage for beachgoers in a coastal strip town. Here the sand divided water and shore, stripey, blue-green huts separated the sands from the city anew, and big and little people of all flavors played between worlds.

It was clear that our last wild camping adventure was going to require particular pizazz. Therefore fresh fish and other fine fodder was purchased before trickling further down the coast, eyes always peeled for paths with slumbering potential.

 

Then there it was -- an inconspicuous side street pointing up toward more inconspicuous side paths, topped with a cherry of delicious, inconspicuous, dreamy plot of land upon which to park our worn wagon and weary bones.

Needless to say, we were pretty excited with the find. It was a remote area amidst fields, sparingly dotted with villages and ripe with fleecy sheepies. Oh, the view -- the view! My gut was still a bit twisted about not having permission to camp there, as I wouldn't be able to explain myself in case anyone came knocking on our tent flap in the middle of the night. When a truck actually did pull up next to our vehicle while in the middle of Operation Dinner, I didn't know whether to feel more worried or relieved. A rough, buff-looking gentleman hopped out, nodded in greeting in our general direction, and went about his business, tending to the fields and flocks and all that. Spanish-inclined Fellow Roadtripper approached him to ask if we could camp there once he finally made his way back to the truck, heaving a dead sheep into the back. There was some gesturing and some nodding and when he finally figured out what we were trying to say, and he answered positively with more gesturing and more nodding, "Something something something tranquilo something something!". That was good enough to put me at ease. Not only was he down with us camping there, he even pointed us a bit further down a grassy road to a location he found even more ideal, describing the view with arms sweeping out widely and an expression of great satisfaction creasing his leathery face. We thanked him as best we could and I sent many grateful vibes along after him as he disappeared down the trail of the setting sun.

After the most magnificent meal the GDR-era Gas Cooker and our ingredients could provide, we collected our wine and chocolate and perched beneath a tree upon Sunset Hill, fleecy sheepies munching monotonously below. At one point I stood to take some photos from further up, which the sheep apparently found to be VERY exciting as the whole flock stampeded in one motion toward me, stopping suddenly in a line just a few feet away, their eyes all fixed on me, wondering which sort of edibles I could provide. I was very surprised and felt, very, very observed. However, the grass beneath their cloven footies soon became the main attraction and my two seconds of fame were over before I had even figured out what was going on.

The night fell as it does, the moon rose as it did, and we fell asleep to the sounds of a village party in a valley below. The so-called calm before the storm.